Yes. The title stinks. I have a HARD time coming up with titles and characters, so if you're reading, I apologize. I'll also mention right now that I believe in slash in Tolkien's word and don't endorse it either. There were 9 Walkers, and Glorfindel found Frodo on the way to Rivendell. ^.^;;; If you're still reading this, then I hope you enjoy. I don't know where it came from.
I'm going to try and stick closely to the nature and history of the books, though I can't guarantee I will be exact in using dates and character relations. Anyway, as much as I hate to do it.. I will change things around just for the purpose of stories.

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Prologue: Coming of Age

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Mirkwood was alive. Bright torches illuminated the dancing brances of the tall trees. The rhythmic beating of a drum seemed to mirror the heart of the forest itself.
The king of Mirkwood watched his people silently from a dais in the back of the clearing. The Silvan Elves were drinking their fill of wine and dancing widlly. Such as it should be, for tonight deserved celebration.
His youngest child danced in the center of the festivities, his hair swinging wildly around his shoulders. Tonight, he was 1000, the coming-of-age. After tonight, he would be counted an adult, and take on the responsibilities that entangled. This was his celebration, in the Silvan tradition, and he would not intervene. Though the Sindar had brought their kindred back to old wisdom, the Elves were still deeply rooted in the forest, and vice versa. Thus, Legolas gerw up in two worlds: his father's and his friends. He was far more like a wood-Elf than any Sindar; his hair was golden instead of dark, though there was a tinge of darkened hair beneath the waves of yellow.
Such musings did not matter though, Thranduil reflected as he watched his son.

The dancing continued, and it seemed as if Legolas had thrown all his cares to the wind. Mirkwood was a part of him, as he was a part of the forest. The tradition had been a part of his life, for he had seen his friends and elders go through it again and again. He glanced at his father, smiling widely.
The drums halted, and began again in a very slow pound. Legolas saw one of the older Elves before him, holding out a white goblet.
"The wine of your father, the waters of Cuivienen! From here, you shall join the paths of your Elders, and your kindred." The Elf stated in the Sindarin tongue. "Do you accept it?"
Everything went silent. Legolas took the drink, and brought it slowly to his lips.
The taste was sweet.. and it assaulted his senses all at once. There was a loud cheering, and the drums rattled, but he was slow to hear them. The world he had a firm hold upon was starting to swim, and the noise of the drums began to turn harsh.
The cheers became violent cries. He staggered backwards as he saw something splatter on his armor. Blood..
His sword slammed into his attacker as he swung around. Silver glinted off of shining mail, marred by the chaos and spilt blood. Something warm touched his fingers. It was Elven blood.
He was killing his own kindred...
Legolas slumped backwards as he felt a strong grip hold him tightly. The goblet fell to the ground.

Thranduil caught his son as he fell. There was a moment of uncomfortable silence as the prince of Mirkwood stared at his father blankly. A thin smile crossed his lips as he attempted to regain his balance.
"Your wine is far too strong m'lord,"
Thranduil snorted. "Then you are neither my son nor a grown Elf!"
The Elves exploded into laughter. Legolas let out a thin sigh of relief. The battle scene faded into his mind as the music began again.
Idly, his hand ran through his free golden hair. Tomorrow, it would be set in the style of an adult.
Beneath the waves of gold, something had appeared. A silver rune, carefully etched, had appeared on Legolas' white neck. No one in Mirkwood had the skill to read it, in Arda, perhaps a select few.
Yet as the rune appeared, a silent grief fell upon the Elf, to which he could not account for.

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Whee that's all for right now, I hope you enjoyed it! I won't make any guarantees this will be finished, but it's going to be interesting to write..
Justification:
Tolkien wrote (I think in letters) that Elves were considered mature at 50. Considering their immortality, it seems to me that they'd enjoy as much childhood as they could. Legolas is considered a 'young' Elf, but he is probably well into his thousands also. (Moviewise, he's near 3000.)